Words Unspoken
by Skite
Summary: There are some things you just can’t say to a teacher. “I’ll miss you” is one of them. “I love you” is another. Not quite MMAD – yet. One-shot inspired by my “Because”. You might want to read that first, since this builds upon it.


Words Unspoken

**Words Unspoken**

by Skite

**Discalimer:** Yeah, I own Harry Potter. And pigs can fly.

**Summary:** There are some things you just can't say to a teacher. "I'll miss you" is one of them. "I love you" is another.

Not quite MMAD – yet. One-shot inspired by my "Because". (You might want to read that first, since this builds upon it.)

**Author's Note: **Once again, I'm taking liberties with both canon and fanon. Once again, don't read this if that bothers you.

The end is coming ever nearer. The end to a major portion of her life. The end of her time at the school. The end of the time that saw her transformed from a child into a young adult. Of course, the end of this era means the beginning of a new one, but she isn't thinking of that right now.

Not that she is generally pessimistic. She has simply lived here for so long that she cannot imagine any other life. And sometimes, at night, when the optimistic future prospects of a very intelligent young witch have faded into the shadows, she wonders if she wants to. She loves it here. She loves learning. She loves being challenged to work to the best of her abilities. She loves her classes, bizarre as that may seem for a student. She loves living so close to her friends, and being able to see them whenever she wants to, every day. She loves Quidditch. She loves having such a great library nearby, being able to run there and look up obscure information on a whim. She loves lying under the tree by the lake, reading in the summer. She loves the smell of the morning air on the school grounds, the grounds being far removed from anything that could taint it. She loves the castle itself, with all its secrets. She loves everything, from the main aspects of her life here to the smallest details, and what she doesn't love, she still appreciates in some way. She becomes sentimental late at night.

She loves him. There is no use denying it. She loves most of her teachers in one way or another, but none to the same extent as him.

She can't tell anyone, of course. No one would understand. They understand about crushes on teachers, but it's nothing like that. She can't define the way she loves him – though it's not for lack of trying – but she knows it's not a crush. She is not _in_ love with him.

Of all the things she'll miss, she thinks she might quite possibly miss him the most. At least of all the single things. She will always miss the Hogwarts life as a whole the very most. Not that she planning to spend the rest of her life pining over the loss of her schoolgirl days. Not at all. But she can't help wondering if she will ever be so carefree and content again.

She will always look back on her schooldays as fond memories, she knows. She will always smile when she thinks back to him. Perhaps, at first, it will be a wistful smile, but it will always be a smile.

She wonders what he thinks. She never really knows what he thinks. When she talks to him, they are always lighthearted, joking. He hasn't mentioned her upcoming graduation at all. It is always on her mind, but she keeps quiet. She wonders if he thinks about it at all. About her leaving specifically; naturally no teacher can avoid thinking about graduation in general. She wonders if he gives it any thought at all. And what he thinks if he does. Will he miss her? A little, at least? She hopes she is more to him than the average student. She refuses to believe that if she is, it is by more than a little. Though she hesitates to believe even that. No use festering illusions. She is always practical minded. Except during those hours of darkness when all is still and her mind wanders.

She wonders if he will say goodbye. She really has no idea. She knows he can be earnest, but somehow she cannot see him seriously bidding her adieu. They are both much more comfortable in their typical easy, jesting manner. She wished he would, though. Then she would know that he cared about her, at least a bit. She never knows with him. She wonders if, even at seventeen, part of her is still a little girl, wishing for his blessing before she sets out into the great wide world on her own. She supposes she also wants a special memory to warm her when she thinks of it. To drive away some of the sadness she will feel when thinking of him. At least for a while.

There is so much she wishes she could say to him. "I'll miss you." But her tongue is bound. How could she say that? Students are glad to leave school, slightly sentimental at most. Students don't miss their teachers. If she said she would miss him, he would wonder why.

"I love you, you know." But he doesn't. And how could he? Students are fond of good teachers at the very most. Oh, sure, some students have crushes on their teachers, but those are giggly girls, most unlike her sensible and respectable self. And anyway, she doesn't have a crush. She just loves him. With all her heart; or so it feels at times. But students don't love their teachers. And teachers don't love their students. Like, perhaps, sometimes, but never love.

She is the model of propriety. Manners, decorum, codes of conduct, she observes all the unwritten rules of interaction. To her experience it always saves all parties involved a lot of undue embarrassment. To break them so would be unthinkable.

She hopes he will say goodbye.

Perhaps he will. It is not totally unimaginable that he will wish her luck for the future. Sober for a minute or so from his ever jovial air to tell her she will do great. She does so hope he will. She knows she could never be the one to initiate such an exchange, but she is certain that if she walks away forever without saying goodbye, it will always be one of her regrets.

There is so much she wants him to know, and at the same time is afraid he will find out. "I'll miss you. I love you." She can't have him know because she cannot bear to have her heart broken. Her heart, which attaches itself to people far too easily. Her heart, which leaves pieces behind with so many people she is fond of. Loves. And there is no way he loves her the way she loves him. Even the most fantastic part of her mind cannot even dream so, because it is beyond impossible. No teacher loves a student so much that it hurts to part. No student loves a teacher that much, either. He might pity her if he knew. He might be apprehensive. She cannot tell him, but she cannot leave and leave it all unsaid.

The beauty of having your actions governed by unwritten codes is that there is so much subtlety. Ostensibly obeying the rules but communicating underneath their radar. So much is left unsaid, but implied, never definite, assumed yet always uncertain. Something said in obvious jest is, on the surface, just that, but underneath, so much more. It might be the full truth and no one but the speaker will ever know. Jokes are excellent ways to speak the truth without letting anyone know you are doing so. It is the beauty of subtext that it is never clearly readable.

If he says goodbye, she will be able to imply what she dares not say. Very, very subtly. Nigh unperceivably. That way, if he ever asks her – not that he ever will – she can deny it, put it off as a joke. It is preposterous, after all. He may never realize it. But that won't matter, because she will have spoken the words meant to ever be held in silence. That way, if he realizes – and he might well, he is astute, after all – he will put it aside, believing that he is misreading, that she cannot have possibly meant to imply that. It is preposterous, after all. And if, despite it all, he does realize – which is possible, which she is hoping for against hope – he will never see how strong it is. He will accept one of his best students' fond affection without realizing that it is more. It cannot possibly be. It is preposterous, after all.

"I love you and I'll miss you."

Those words must always remain unspoken. But they could still be there, hovering between them. Invisible, but one does not see with the eyes alone.

"I love you and I'll miss you."

Smiles. Looks. Whatever. It will always be right there, between them.

**A/N:** Rereading this, I've just realized that this seems a lot like Hemingway's style. I did absolutely not mean to imitate his style; I do not even particularly like it. I've just been reading a lot of Hemingway lately and my subconscious, or wherever my muse lives, must have been influenced by it. So, I had no intention of copying him, but this just somehow turned out this way. It fits the mood I was trying to capture, and I'm not going to change it. Just thought you should know.


End file.
